Hooked Up: Book 2 (26 page)

I had a vision of that greasy cousin of hers sending out a sniper to shoot me down, planted on a rooftop somewhere as I went out for an innocent stroll in the park. That part I believed . . . that he was in love with her. Those large families with cousins and aunts and great uncles and weddings that went on for a whole week often had incestuous blood snaking through their veins.

I’d have to be alert and on the ball.

THE PURPOSE OF MY London visit was to meet an up-and-coming, twenty-three-year-old video game designer, and talk business. I was getting into the video games market, where budgets were bigger than blockbuster feature films and big money could be made. I was a player, had been since I was a young boy, although I kept that side of things under wraps. People don’t expect a big shot CEO to be playing games. Now, at least, I could use my vice as an excuse. “Research,” I could say. Boys will be boys. Or rather, men will be boys. When it comes to toys, no man’s a grown-up, no matter how hard he pretends.

I also had a meeting with the Minister of Finance from the British government, some of his aides, and Sophie. We needed more leeway in Britain. As much as I had threatened Sophie with getting out of HookedUp, I decided to hold off, give her another chance. She’d been making amends with Pearl and her effort seemed genuine. The wedding gown gift proved it. And she’d promised not to let shits like that Russian arms dealer anywhere near our business, so for the moment, I was cool with things.

But I also had other stuff to attend to in England. Of a more personal nature.

Over the last few weeks, I’d listened to several frantic messages from Laura on my voicemail. At first I ignored them but as time went on I decided I had to deal with the situation, in person. She was threatening to come to New York and I needed to nip that possibility in the bud. Desperate to see me face-to-face, she said she needed to discuss something that couldn’t be resolved by phone. She’d been on holiday to my house in Provence, expecting the whole time for me to show up. When I didn’t, she really started hounding me.

Poor Laura was obviously hurting. Rationally, my brain told me that it wasn’t my problem. Laura was the one who split up with me, dumped me for James—left me to nurse my broken heart. It had been years ago so I was completely over it, but she had no right to play the underdog now. Yet the sympathetic side of me was whispering a different story in my ear, reminding me she was disabled, only just recently out of a wheelchair. She’d suffered immeasurably and she needed a friend. Since I’d met Pearl I’d been distant; Laura rarely crossed my mind, but inexplicably I still felt a sense of guilt. So I agreed to meet up. She was going to come and see me at the Connaught where I was staying.

As I was mulling all this over, taking a shortcut through St. James’s Park, on my way back to the hotel, like a bolt of lightning I remembered my niece. I’d been so wrapped up in Pearl and Sophie’s dodgy business antics over the past couple of months that I’d forgotten to check up on Elodie. I’d seen her around the office building in Manhattan, but we hadn’t had a chance to talk. She’d asked for security so I’d provided my bodyguard to be on call for her whenever she wanted him. I’d never actually used him for myself but had him on my payroll just for good measure. Maybe I’d be asking for his help now, though, after Indira’s shenanigans.

I called and waited for Elodie to pick up. My walk was a welcome relief, away from the city’s traffic and noise. As I looked around I noted that there was a difference between the parks in central London and Paris, a clue to the discrepancy in nature between both countries. Paris was so formal; people were forbidden to loll about the grass in the parks of central Paris—but in London you saw kids play football, dogs chasing ducks and geese, and people sprawled out sunbathing, or enjoying a picnic.

It was lunch hour, and office workers were eating sandwiches and basking in the crisp autumnal sunshine, away from the confines of their stuffy offices, the tyranny of their computers and petty internal politics—the perils of a nine-to-five job. As I was listening to Elodie’s ring tone I people-watched and dog-watched. Why wasn’t she picking up?

She finally answered. “Elodie,” I said, relieved that she hadn’t changed her number. “What took you so long? And why haven’t you called to check in?”

“I’m sorry,” she replied in a bored drawl, “just put the roses over there, would you? I’ve been busy with stuff.”

“Roses?”

“Just a delivery,” and she added quickly, “for my roommate.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay now. Things are better.”

“You’re not still scared? Not worried about being followed?”

“No, no,” and then she said with a faint giggle, “I was imagining things. Everything’s fine.”

My eye caught the view of the London Eye in the distance, peeking out above the golden and russet-colored trees. “You’re sure?” I checked again. There was something in her tone that I found disarming. A beat of silence at her end of the line was muffled by cries of geese near the park’s small lake. I thought about the position of where I stood in that moment; Buckingham Palace at one side, and at the other, the Foreign Office and 10 Downing Street, where the British Prime Minister lived. I imagined several M15 spies had their meetings right here, away from bugs and walls with ears—spyware everywhere. They too were spying on others for a living. And I wondered, once again, if I should do my own share of espionage; have Elodie followed for her own safety, or if that was breaching her privacy too much.

Because something made me suspect that when she said that everything was okay, she was lying.

I RELAXED INTO the sofa of my penthouse at the Connaught—described by the hotel as, “London’s most luxurious home”—enjoying a power nap. I have always been a fan of the nanosecond siesta; it can do wonders. There was a knock at the door. Odd, the concierge always called first, and room service had already passed by that morning. I hadn’t ordered anything, hadn’t summoned the butler. I looked at my watch. Laura wasn’t due for another forty minutes. I had specifically arranged for us to meet downstairs—I didn’t want the intimacy of her being in my living quarters. I knew Laura, her persuasiveness, her doggedness. When she wanted something, she usually got it, and right now, I sensed she wanted
me
.

My heart started racing.
Fuck—Indira’s cousins—the London lot—Indians always have relatives in London. Perhaps a clan of them is waiting outside my door with crowbars, ready to top me off.

I called reception. “Hello, Mr. Chevalier here. Did anyone ask to come up and see me?”

“No, sir,” the concierge replied.

Just at that moment, there was another knock at the door and a voice, which I knew well, cried out, “Alexandre, it’s me. I know you’re in there, let me in.”

Bloody hell.
It was Laura.

Being so relieved that it wasn’t a bunch of furious uncles about to launch an attack, I let Laura in. She looked taller than usual, or perhaps I had just gotten used to Pearl. Laura seemed Amazonian in comparison—she was at least six foot two in heels. Her blonde hair flowed down her back and her bee-stung lips pouted at me like a small child who was determined to get her daddy’s attention.

“Alex, why the look of suspicion on your face? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She stepped into the room and threw her white cashmere coat onto an armchair. She looked like a supermodel: tall, skinny. Swaggering with confidence, even though she was using a cane and had a very slight limp. The cane was black with a mother-of-pearl handle, so it matched her glamorous outfit.

“How did you get past reception?”

“Oh please,” she murmured, as if I’d said the dumbest thing in the world. She thrust her shoulders back and stuck out her chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her nipples pointed sharp under her flimsy silk blouse. “Well, aren’t you going to kiss me hello?”

I came over to her and offered a peck on the cheek. She responded with a soft, damp kiss. “I’ve missed you darling,” she breathed into my ear.

“Shame Pearl couldn’t be here,” I said in reply, walking to the other end of the room and sitting on a couch. “She would have loved to have met you.”
Not.

“So how’s your mum?” she said, totally ignoring my comment.

“Fine. I saw her in Paris a couple of months ago. Or was it just last month? Time flies.”

“Yes, time does fly. Especially when you’re suffering.” She looked down at the floor.

“I’m sorry if things haven’t turned out the way you wanted, Laura. But you’re looking great. I see you’re on your feet again. You should be proud of yourself. So, what was it that was so important and couldn’t wait? What did you want to talk to me about?”

She flicked her long hair. “I’ve always been curious to see this famous penthouse apartment at the Connaught.” She surveyed her surroundings with approval. “Nice. Very chic. I’ll go and check out the balcony in a moment, when I’ve caught my breath. I have to say, it’s stunning. I could quite happily move in.”

“Your house is hardly a hovel,” I said, realizing she was in the mood to play the beat-around-the-bush game.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

“Yes, of course. A soft drink?”

“God, no. I need a
real
drink.”

“Should I call the butler? Or better still, we can go downstairs.”

“No. God, no. Let’s just keep it us, shall we, and stay right here.”

I stood up and made my way to the bar. I turned around. “What would you like then?”

She shuffled on the edge of the armchair and I saw a flash of her panties. Bare legs, apart from killer-heeled, thigh high, black leather boots. Probably Gucci. She loved Gucci. A mini skirt. She had modeled pantyhose once—her legs never seemed to end.

“Something expensive,” she said.

“What?”

“I don’t know, you choose. A bottle of chilled Cristal? A vintage Bordeaux? Nothing too plebian. Something I don’t drink at home.”

“Laura, you and James have the best-stocked drinks’ cabinet in London!”

“Surprise me.
Impress
me.”

I had forgotten that about Laura. She was high-maintenance. I’d been constantly scrambling about to please her when we’d dated. Wanted to make her proud of me. Tried to treat her like the queen she felt she was. But that was when I was twenty. I had grown up a bit since then.

“I have no idea what will impress you, Laura.”

“What about a Bloody Mary, how about that?”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Good idea.” It did seem a fitting drink for her, but in that moment I didn’t know why. “Living in New York has trained my taste buds,” I said. “They know how to make a kickass Bloody Mary there. Lots of horseradish sauce and the right amount of spice.”

“Kickass? Ugh, you’re picking up some really tacky American expressions, Alex.” And then she mumbled, “Must be that . . . that . . . ” She didn’t finish her sentence, just sneered, and then continued, “Actually, let
me
make the Bloody Marys. I bet I can outdo those New York bartenders.”

“I bet you can’t but be my guest, give it a go—I need to make some calls.”

I went out onto the balcony and took in the views over Mayfair, wondering how I could get this too-cozy-for-comfort rendezvous over with as quickly as possible. I didn’t often drink midday but what the hell, I thought. Maybe Laura had started self-medicating with booze because of the physical pain she was in, so no harm in joining her—my important meetings for the day were safely out of the way.

I called various work contacts. Then, as I was chatting to someone in Rome about a share in a boutique hotel I had there, Laura came out and handed me my Bloody Mary.

“Here we go,” she whispered. “Don’t want to interrupt your call. Don’t mind me, I’ll entertain myself with a magazine or something, while you take care of business.”

I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she moved off toward the dining room, aided by her cane. The place was vast: a dining room with seating for ten, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a large living room. Fresh flowers in bespoke vases, oil paintings adorning the walls, strategically placed at eye level. Creams and pale blues and, oh, so very Laura—I knew she’d be impressed and would want to nose about. That’s why she’d insisted on coming up and not meeting me in the lobby, I thought. I sipped my Bloody Mary. Actually, it was very good; she’d gotten the recipe right after all.